Christmases Past

I recently came across a couple of old photographs from Christmases past. When I was a kid, my family often got together with the families of our Irish friends for Christmas eve to share Irish whiskey, snacks and lots of good cheer. Somehow the night always came to an end with everybody sitting around the floor singing - usually into a tape recorder for Grandma Fay back home in Ireland or my Grandma Coulthard back in England. I loved sitting around the rug in a big semi-circle, wrapped in love and security and hoping that each and every Christmas time would always be like this. After all, that's what it was all about - being with family and the people I love.

Oh yeah, it was fun to get presents too. For years my sister Vicky, a die hard tomboy, got a cowboy suit for Christmas, complete with holster and badge. My presents varied. One year I got a nurses kit, even though I hated blood and hospitals. What I really wanted was an artist's kit. The following year I got a box of 100 Crayola crayons laid out side-by-side in a colorful array. Although they were beautiful, somehow, I knew real artists didn't color. They painted. So, the next year I asked for paints for Christmas and this time I got a box of water colors and a couple of paint-by-number kits. I was sure that real artists didn't pant by number either.

Somewhere along the way, I kind of gave up asking for anything in the way of art supplies and made do with what I had. Instead, I received books, a blacklight poster of butterflies, plants, clothes and lots of other things I loved and wanted. I knew my parents sacrificed much to get us nice gifts and I appreciated every one of them, tied up beautifully with a pretty ribbon and Christmas giftwrap. What I remember most, I guess, is the love that went into each and every Christmas. The presents may be gone now, but the memory of all that love still remains, wrapped around me like a cozy quilt on a frosty winter night.

Running and Writing

I recently started running again, albeit slowly. Now that I've picked up a little bit more speed (very little, I might add) and have gotten past the point where I'm clutching my side, gasping for breath and stopping every few hundred feet to take a walking break, I'm enjoying it. I even entered a few races this fall. While I didn't set any course records, I did manage to take a minute and 20 seconds off my time from the end of October to the beginning of December. Hope twinkles like a star in the early night sky. If I can run through the winter - at least 15-18 miles a week - maybe I can take another two minutes off my time by spring. Perhaps more!

When I write, as when I run, I always have a short term and a long term goal in sight. With running it might be to take another 15 seconds off my race time or to run hard to the end of the block so my body begins to learn the feeling of moving fast. With writing, it might be to find an unforced rhyme, to work through a particularly difficult scene like a fight or an escape scene, to crawl inside my mc's head and communicate her fears and her hopes or to finally make it through to the end of the chapter.

Long term goals are easier. Why do I run? Because it's a challenge and I love a challenge and the feeling of accomplishment I experience when I've completed a long run or a tough race. I like the afterburn and the way running sculpts my muscles. My longterm goal is to improve my health and get off all my diabetes meds - for good.

With writing, it's always to complete my work in progress and eventually find a home for it. Much harder to do than say. The real joy is in the doing, in the time spent treading the streets of my neighborhood or sitting before my computer and rising to the challenge of a blank page - of making something out of nothing more than my thoughts and dreams.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is knocking on the back door and it's time to ponder the things I'm thankful for. Here are just a few that I deeply appreciate.

1. My family - a generous, talented and supportive husband and two wonderful, kind sons who I'm proud of.

2. Perseverance - It requires perseverance to succeed at anything. So while I may not be the most talented artist, the most gifted writer or the fastest runner, I do have a strong work ethic and an ability to stick to something and eventually reap results.

3. My health. Though it may sound trite, I took my health for granted until I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. Despite being prescribed more medication, my blood sugar continued to spiral upward. I was frustrated until I discovered a better way of eating; I became a vegan. Changing to a plant based diet has not only helped me lose 20 pounds hanging around my waist and hips but helped me bring my blood sugar almost back to normal. I still have another 10 to lose but I'm getting there.

4. Good friends. Sometimes I need a sounding board, somebody to go shopping with or to attend an art opening with. My friends enrich my life in so many ways and I'm grateful for each and every one of them.

5. Books - old books, new books, tomes of poetry and picture books. I love to hold a book in my hands, to run my fingers along its spine and breathe in its slightly musty odor. I especially love the warmth and cozy comfort of a whole wall of books filled with stories upon stories. Keep your Kindle, I still love the old-fashioned, low tech book.

6. Art Supplies - paint brushes, pencils, kneaded erasers, tubes of oil paints and the creamy expanse of a sheet of drawing paper or a length of linen canvas. Whenever I'm around art materials, I practically tingle with excitement.

7. My Parents. Though they're gone now, they live on in my thoughts and in my heart. I miss them deeply and am fortunate to have been raised by two people who loved me and understood the importance of books and education.

Of course there are hundreds of other little things I'm grateful for like Post-It Notes, hot tea served in a china cup or pink peonies, but this is my list of the things that matter most to me.

How about you? What are you most thankful for?

Marathons

For me, November means heaps of leaves, savory home cooked soups, dressing in layers to take a run in the brisk air and of course, The New York City Marathon. Last Sunday we had a NY Marathon breakfast with some friends from our Monday night running group. We gathered around the tv to cheer on some local favorites - Cathleen Kelly, Brendan Barrett and Richard Velazquez - while we tracked their progress online. Meanwhile, my husband made everybody omelets to go along with the fruit salad and NY bagels. Somebody brought pumpkin bread and someone else, mimosa fixings and we were ready to enjoy the morning.

It was great to fun watch the race with a group of people who appreciate running. A tremendous amount of time goes into training for a marathon - months and months, to be truthful. Despite potholes, freezing temperatures, biting winds, rain, shin splits, a side stitch or an overwhelming desire to stop and go home, the runner presses on until he/she crosses the finish line.

As I watched the runners clock mile after mile, I couldn't help but think that writing a novel is another kind of marathon. Like a runner, the author must push on if he wants to complete his book. Of course, there are always distractions - the tv, the internet, the phone, invitations to dinner, a sudden urge to sleep. But deep inside the writer knows that if he really wants to call himself a writer, he must ignore all the diversions and press forward to the end.

This month hundreds - maybe thousands - of writers are participating in NaNoWriMo. That means they've committed themselves to completing a first draft of a novel by the end of November and it must be at least 50,000 words long. It doesn't have to be good. In truth, most of the NaNo novels are far far from polished. The idea is to get it down. Later you can go back and revise it, to shape it into something compelling, into something that perhaps even sparkles.

People tackle other marathons, too - marathons of the spirit and the body, such as disease, poverty and other misfortunes. And like those runners crossing the finish line, there's a wonderful yet painful joy in finally making it to the end, in knowing that they've endured or have accomplished something few others have done. I couldn't do NaNoWriMo this year, due to some pending deadlines on other projects but I may try this on my own sometime, just to see how far I get.

Get Up and Move vs. Butt In Chair

"Do you have a secret that makes you so productive?
Want to know my secret? BIC.
That’s right. BIC. Butt in chair. There is no other single thing that will help you more to become a writer."
-Jane Yolen

As a writer who hopes to one day have her own book published, the most important thing I can do is to write, a task which entails applying my butt to the chair, according to the grand dame of children's literature, Jane Yolen. Often for an hour or more each day. The same can be said for artists, although I must admit, many do stand as they paint. The arts I love mean using your mind and your memory as well as your imagination more than your body.

This is great for my writing and my art; not so great for my physique or my diabetes 2 which I've been battling hard this summer. A few months ago, my blood sugar was spiraling out of control and I was, well, chubbed out. According to all the recommendations for women my size, I was within the normal weight range but I was not happy. I had love handles, felt sluggish and tired and my usual size 4 was getting harder and harder to squeeze into. Something had to be done about it. And soon.

I did some research on the internet and found Dr. Fuhrman's website. Fuhrman is a family MD who specializes in nutrition and disease reversal. According to him, I just might be able to reverse - or improve - my diabetes. So I began following a vegan diet and exercising vigorously 5 days a week. To most people, a vegan diet sounds extreme. In actuality, it's amazingly diverse. Over the course of any given day, I often eat as many as 20 different kinds of foods. For exercise, I either run for half an hour or ride my bike for an hour or longer. The weight came off. Since the third week in July, I have dropped 17 pounds and gone down a size or two. My blood sugar has plummeted and I no longer take as much medication to control it.

My writing and art? I'm still at it. I've learned to apply the same philosophy to my life as I applied to my library when building a collection. Balance. As a writer, an artist, and a diabetic, I need to balance the needs of my body with the needs of my soul otherwise, I may not be around long enough to see any book published.

Six Things On a Saturday

1. Tomorrow we're having Thanksgiving in October to celebrate Derek's homecoming. He's here for a week to attend a friend's wedding and to see his family and friends. He hasn't been home since January. Welcome Back, Boo! I know he missed New York and its yummy pizza - the best in the country.

2. After nearly two and a half months on the vegan diet (at least 95% of the time) I've lost 15 pounds and my blood sugar has plummeted. I'm also taking fewer meds. Yay! I'd like to drop another 10 pounds, if I can. We'll see. Dennis has dropped about 10 pounds and just had his best cholesterol test ever. A vegan diet is the healthiest there is, IMHO.

3. I'm going into my third week of Atelier Armetta and enjoying it immensely. It's such a treat to work on art 4-5 days a week, instead of 1 or 2 - or none. I feel privileged. On the down side, it's not leaving me much time for writing but I hope to work that out eventually.

4. Now that I've lost a fair amount of weight, I'm going out to buy some new pairs of pants. I picked out all my "fat pants" yesterday and, determined never to have to wear them again, placed them in a donation bag. I could take off one pair without unzipping them. Is that a good way of determining that you need a new pair or what? The jeans I ordered online months ago and couldn't pull up over my hips now fit easily. I'm thrilled. I have to say, however, that I've been working out vigorously 5 days a week and when winter comes it will be a mite harder to stick to that kind of schedule.

5. I'm meeting some friends for lunch on Thursday, some still working who I don't get to see much now and one retired (like me). Am so looking forward to it. I don't miss the commute or the administrative crap heaped upon us but I do miss the kids, the books and many of my colleagues.

6. Some members of The Poet's Garage have started An Eyeball In My Garden blog and it looks awesome! Check it out.

An Interview!

Gayle Krause has been interviewing the poets who contributed to our book, An Eyeball In My Garden. This week it was my turn. Check it out, if you get a chance, as well as the interviews with the rest of our gang.

http://thestorytellersscroll.blogspot.com/

Thanks, Gayle!

Remembering September 11th

The following is a copy of a post I originally published 3 years ago. The memory of this day is still fresh in my mind.

An anniversary is coming up, a sad one that's hard to think about. It's a day when I'll always remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news. I teach on Long Island and I was at work that day, organizing my card trays. My friend Barbara, ran down to my room. "A plane flew into the World Trade Center!" she announced.

We turned on the television in the library to see a burning tail piece sticking out of one of the towers. A shocking sight, to say the least, but we figured it was probably a bizarre accident. What we witnessed next, though , was even more horrifying -- another plane flying into the second tower. Clearly, this was no accident. For the rest of the day, our school was in lockdown, meaning nobody could enter or leave the building. The teachers whispered to each other in the halls. "What's wrong?" the kids asked. "What happened?" How could we tell them? Would they understand? What if somebody's mom or dad worked there? No, we couldn't tell them -- not yet.

For weeks after the attack, an eerie silence settled the parkways and streets of Long Island. The roads that were usually jammed bumper to bumper with traffic were almost empty. Homemade signs dangled from the overpasses. Pray for the missing EMTs. David come home. Pray for the missing firefighters.

A figure model from my drawing class lost both of his daughters in the World Trade Center. They worked for Cantor Fitzgerald, on the top floor of one of the towers.

A young woman who babysat for our boys when they were small lost her husband. He didn't even work in the WTC. She talked to him on the phone as smoke engulfed the conference room where he was trapped. "I love you," he told her before she lost contact with him forever. He had been there for a one day meeting.

A newlywed music teacher my husband worked with lost her husband. She was in denial about it for weeks, claiming he was probably lost and disoriented but, sadly, nobody ever found him.

A friend of ours had just stepped off the subway when the second plane hit. He worked across the street from the WTC. He immediately got back on the subway and took the train home. Later he found he'd lost 10 of his colleagues, including his golf partner. For a year afterward he had trouble sleeping and suffered from depression.

Almost everybody on Long Island lost somebody that day -- a soccer coach, a fire fighter, a police officer, a cook. A friend of my husband's niece -- a Suffolk Co. Police officer -- was on the site with her cadaver dogs in the weeks following, looking for bodies. She can't even talk about what she found. Let's just say, she didn't find any bodies in tact.

For some strange reason I still think of the time we took a plane from Islip Airport on Long Island to Newark, the first leg of a longer flight out west to ski. It was a small, twin engine plane with about 40 passangers aboard. The pilot decided to give us a thrill and fly a few loops around the WTC. We could see people sitting at their desks working, people standing and talking while drinking their morning coffee. It was strange but thrilling at the same time. Now I often wonder how many of those people later lost their lives and, if they survived, what their lives are like now. I know that ours will never be the same.

We lost more than lives that day. We lost our innocence and the feeling of security we had always enjoyed.

Book Reviews

While finding time to write, exercise and manage household chores, I've been reading steadily - a balance of both YA and adult novels. Here are a couple of books I've lost myself in lately.

The Gardener, by S.A. Bodeen.
The intriguing cover and blurb attracted me to this high concept teen sci fi novel about a breed of genetically engineered children called autotrophs who produce their own food and water. When high school sophomore, Mason, discovers that his single mother isn't simply an overworked nursing home aide with a drinking problem, but rather a former research scientist who once worked for TroDyn Industries - a biotech firm that owns half the town - he delves deeper to uncover yet more startling secrets. In the mean time, he also helps one of TroDyn's experiments -a terrified girl named Laila - to escape from TroDyn. She's particularly frightened of somebody called the Gardener who turns out to be the mastermind of the autotroph project. The novel explores the problem of sustaining an ever growing population but falters with a succession of neat coincidences and a rather greedy, one dimensional villain. Both Mason and Laila are intriguing but not fully realized characters. Although the novel could have used more inspired writing and left off the too neat epilogue, The Gardner is a fast, engaging read that will appeal to teens.

The Gargoyle, by Andrew Davidson.
A physically attractive man leading a decadent lifestyle as a pornographer and coke addict drives over a cliff one night and suffers painful, disfiguring burns over most of his body. He's taken to the hospital where he hopes to recover well enough to leave and commit suicide, for he is now a monster, both inside and out. While recovering, he meets Marianne Engel, a schizophrenic sculptress of gargoyles. She visits often, claiming that they were once lovers in medieval Germany. At first the narrator, who remains nameless throughout the novel, thinks she's just a crazy woman but over time he begins to believe her as well as love her. When it comes time to leave the hospital, she brings him home with her to live. Gradually, however, he becomes more addicted to the morphine he's been prescribed. Then Marianne tells him she has received word from God that she has 27 sculptures left to complete before her time on earth is finished. A beautifully and powerfully written book about love and redemption featuring stories within stories.

Ash, by Malinda Lo.
A lovely, lyrical retelling of Cinderella. When Ash's mother unexpectantly dies, and then her father, Ash is left in the care of her cruel, bitter stepmother, Lady Isobel, who makes Ash her servant. Her stepsister, Ana, isn't any better. Her younger stepsister, Clara, attempts to treat her kindly but their relationship is hardly sisterly. Ash's only pleasures are rereading the book of fairy tales her mother once told her and wandering the wood by her home. One evening she meets the mesmerizing fairy prince, Sidhean, who promises her a life among them if she consents to give herself up to him. She agrees but soon after she meets the King's huntress, Kaisa, and a relationship blossoms in this LGBT version of the old fairy tale. This was the first time I've read a LGBT YA novel and I wasn't sure what to expect. What I discovered was a story every bit as beautiful and romantic as the classic retelling, but with a more empowering protagonist. I wasn't surprised to learn that Ash was a finalist for the William C. Morris award.

Life-Changing Diet?

I thought I knew most of what there is to know about diet. After all, I often read articles about diet, nutrition and health in general. But lately, my blood sugar had been creeping up, up, up and during my last physical, the doctor had increased my diabetes meds. Apparently, I didn't know everything. I was ashamed of myself. What was I doing with diabetes? I started having nightmares about amputations, blindness and deafness. This was not what I wanted to deal with in my future.

Desperate, a month or so ago i began researching the link between diabetes and nutrition. I'd read here and there that type 2 diabetes is reversible. If so, I wanted to accomplish this task for myself. My father suffered from type 1 diabetes for over 40 years, often taking two shots a day to control his blood sugar. He wasn't overweight but he wasn't much of an athlete either.

I came across Dr. Joel Fuhrman's website (http://www.drfuhrman.com/default.aspx) and his book, Eat To Live. I was impressed with the amount of information posted on his web site, the stories of his patients who'd reversed their heart disease, asthma, arthritis, lupus and diabetes as well as lost tons of weight. His book looked like a sensible guide to changing your life, so I ordered it. I read Eat To Live in a few days and passed it on to my husband, who'd had a heart attack about 10 years ago. Dennis is in good shape, compared to most people. He's thin and runs marathons but heart disease is in his family, as diabetes is in mine, putting us both at greater risk for these two deadly diseases.

The diet is a radical departure from the normal recommendations. Fuhrman proposes that we need to completely change our way of eating, putting aside all meat and dairy products, all our refined grains and oils. That means no croutons on the two big salads I now eat daily, no cheese on my chili or eggs for breakfast. Yes, I am a vegan or, as he puts it, a nutrarian. That means that I try to eat the foods with with the most nutrients per calorie so my diet now consists of vegetables, fruit, legumes, nuts and some whole grains. Instead of Cheerios for breakfast, I eat oatmeal with fresh berries. I've been following the diet for a little over a week and my blood sugar has dropped precipitously - about 40-50 points, on average. I've also lost weight, though I'm unsure how much (because we don't have an accurate scale in the house). I know that my clothes are looser and I have less of a belly (yay!). Though I fall well within the standard norm for weight, according to Fuhrman, I should weigh about 107 pounds. There's a number I haven't seen since college! I'm excited. Next week I go for my A1C test which gauges how well I'm managing my blood sugar. Since I'll have only been following the diet for a few weeks, I won't expect miracles but I am hoping to see a bit of a drop.

I know this whole post sounds like an ad for Dr. Fuhrman, but so far his diet is doing something I hadn't expected - working. I'm suspicious of most diets because they often call for doing without important nutrients. This diet, however, seems to be right on track. Over the next few months I'll learn whether or not it really will change my life by reversing my disease.

Profiling

Dennis and I returned home Saturday night after our long road trip/vacation which took us through the midwest, Utah and the south. It was great to see our son, Derek, who's attending violin making school out in Salt Lake City, good to see my old college haunts, Traverse City and the upper peninsula of Michigan again and we had a brief but great visit with a couple of AT hikers who both my husband and Derek know, presently living in North Carolina near the Smoky Mountains.

But we did have one disturbing incident - one that made us realize how the victims of racial profiling must feel. As we were heading east on I-80 through Nebraska, we glimpsed a series of notices on the digital signs over the interstate announcing an amber alert for a missing 15 year old girl, Melody Gibbs. In case you're unfamiliar with this term, an amber alert is posted for abducted children. We also caught the notice on the radio a few times. The abductor was driving a red Hyundai Accent with New York plates, was about 30 - 35 years old and could be heading either east toward NY or south in the direction of Alabama.

Dennis laughed and said, "Hah, that could be us." My car is a red Accura with New York plates but we could see somebody who hadn't paid close attention mistaking it for the perp's vehicle. No more than half an hour later, I noticed a state trooper following us with his lights flashing. I wasn't speeding so I suspected it had something to do with the amber alert. I was right. The state trooper took one glimpse at Dennis and I, kind of laughed and said they'd received about 10 calls on our car (mostly from truckers, I suspect), mistaking it for the abductor's car. It only took him a nanosecond for him to realize he had the wrong vehicle. He didn't even bother to check our license and a minute later we were on our way again.

An hour or so later we headed southeast on 129 through Missouri. It was a route that took us through lots of local traffic as it wound its way past countless small Missouri towns. We hadn't been on the road more than half an hour before once again we noticed a police car following us, lights flashing. This time Dennis was driving. The police officer introduced himself as sergeant somebody. "You were going a little fast back there." Yeah, but everybody else was passing us like we were standing still. This wasn't the reason he stopped us. "There's an amber alert," he told us, "for a car matching your car's description."

"Wasn't that a Hyundai Accent?" I asked.

"Uh, yes, but it had New York plates."

"And wasn't the driver a 30 something guy?"

Instead of answering me, he asked Dennis for his license. Obviously we were not child abductors. Instead of admitting he'd made a mistake, however, he asked us a ton of questions. What are you doing in Missouri? Where are you coming from? Where did you stop for the night? Where are you headed now? Whose car is this?

We started feeling that we were the victims. About this time, we noticed two other police vehicles pulling up behind him with reinforcements. What the #$#*^! They asked Dennis to open the trunk. In retrospect, perhaps I should have opened the trunk, since it's my car. Perhaps they would have backed off. Our trunk was jammed with camping equipment and duffle bags. No dead bodies or hidden weapons. Finally they let us go. As if that wasn't bad enough, a few miles down the road, again we noticed the police following closely behind us. This time 2 cars were right on our tail. This was within the same county, the same town where the police should have been in touch with each other. The two police cars continued to tailgate us for the next 10 miles or so until finally we drove beyond the area of their jurisdiction. Now we were upset.

Our car and its license plate number did not match that of the abductor's. And neither Dennis or I matched the description of the perpetrator. It was as if they just wanted to give us a hard time for being New Yorkers. It made us realize how minorities feel when they're harassed simply because of their race or the color of their skin. The only thing we were guilty of was driving a red car with NY plates.

It will be a long time before I set foot in the state of Missouri again.

One Door Closes...

The end of my teaching career is in sight - in 10 days, to be precise. Although I'll miss my students -at least most of them - and of course the books and many of my colleagues, I will not miss the increasing demands that the administration has placed on us. Every year, they want an extra ounce of our blood. Their demands are draining, leaving me pressed to find time to do much else.

I'm looking forward to having time to pursue my other interests - drawing, painting and writing. I also plan to make time to do some traveling with my husband. We've been so busy raising our kids, then scrimping to put both our boys through college, that we haven't had time to see much of the world, outside of a few ski slopes. Skiing is s fun way to spend a winter day, but I'd like to see other places, too - Venice, Florence, the Greek and Roman ruins, the castles of England, Wales and Scotland. I'd like to go to Australia and New Zealand and see something of South America.

So, in August when those annoying Staples commercials air - you know them ("It's the most wonderful time of the year..." ) - I'm not going to get stressed or anxious about the advent of a new school year. I'm not going to wonder if I should go in early to look over the new books, contemplate decorating my bulletin boards or think about buying new clothes or planning new lessons. Instead I'm going to enjoy September - take a morning bike ride or run, do some writing in my pajamas and go to art classes. I'm going to savor the soft days of late September and not think about stepping into the role of teacher again.

I can hardly wait.

Poetry

After several years of sending batches of poems to the Carus Group (publishers of Babybug, Ladybug, Spider, Cricket, etc.) they finally accepted one of my poems for publication - "The Termite". I almost didn't include this one in my last batch because some members of my critique group had been so critical of it. But while some didn't like it, others did - including me. I read it, and two others termite poems, to my class of second graders and they only laughed out loud at mine. So I followed my gut and sent it off to Carus. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Good thing, too. I am thrilled! I know it's a little thing, but Spider Magazine is a high quality, literary publication and getting a poem accepted by them is a small affirmation of my writing skills.

Alas, I wish it had been a story or a fiction piece. In a few months, I'll have more time to craft fiction. For now, writing poetry satisfies my creative yearnings and keeps me writing.

todd rundgren - bang on the drum all day

Forty five days left before I can retire. After spending two hours stuck in traffic going to and from work today, this is how I feel. I want time to write and paint.

Friday Five

1. I recently realized something I didn't want to admit. The weather affects the way I feel about writing or painting - even teaching. Here it's only April and lately it's been feeling more like the middle of May with temperatures in the 70s and 80s and the tree and flowers bursting into blossom. After several days of this weird weather we're almost back to normal. Thank you very much, weather gods, because when it's warmer or colder than normal, I am too distracted to concentrate.

2. I have 54 more days of teaching left. I'm getting anxious about the big changes in store, yet looking forward to my new life, too.

3. My sisters are both going through a very tough time now and my hearts go out to them.

4. After some problems with exhaustion due to a change in my medications, I'm finally back to running - though still slowly. Sometimes a good workout is one of the few positive things I can salvage from a bad day.

5. My husband will be running The Boston Marathon next weekend, for his second consecutive year, and my son, Derek, will be running his first marathon in Salt Lake City where he's studying violin making at the Violin Making School of America.

Torn

As I mentioned a few posts ago, I am retiring in June from my job as a school librarian. Over the years, I've met thousands of wonderful kids and had the opportunity to hold many lovely, outstanding books in my hands, books which I have in turn shared with my students. For me, there aren't too many things more important than connecting kids with great literature, in making readers out of them. But in recent years the administration has changed and instead of working in one library where I had an opportunity to get to know the kids and the staff well and to build a collection responsive to their needs, I'm now working in 3 different libraries. I feel like a vagabond traveling from school to school. It is not the job I once loved and I am exhausted from trying to keep up with everything.

As the economic conditions have deteriorated, so has the job. The administration will not be replacing me, at least not this year, leaving 3 librarians to cover 6 schools. I can't imagine how they will manage. It also means that each of the libraries will be closed several days a week.

What will you do? people have asked. That won't be a problem, I assure them. The bigger problem will be trying to decide how to divide my time to pursue my interests. Robert has informed me that he's going to expand his full time atelier program - maybe in time for the summer. I want so much to study art full time. His students have turned out some amazing work in the year since he started the program and I long to be a part of it, to see how far I can push myself.

Alas, I also want to devote more time to writing and do some traveling with Dennis. Like art or any other discipline - even running or baseball - you have to practice it nearly every day if you want to improve. The atelier program is for three years - certainly not forever - but that's three years of my life. And time is precious. That's one of the reasons I'm retiring.

I guess I'm fortunate, in a sense. When some people retire, they feel lost without their jobs. Some people, in truth, define their very existence by their jobs. Teaching was one facet of my life, not all of me, and while I will miss most of the kids and the books and my colleagues, I will not miss the bureaucrats who seem to hold Smart Boards in higher regard than school librarians.

So, onward! I have exactly 57 days left. Never thought I'd be counting down the days like this but now that I've made a decision, I want to push forward with it.

Our Book Cover and More

It's official, Marshall Cavendish, the publisher of The Poets' Garage anthology of spooky poems, has a cover, not to mention interior illustrations. Can't show you the inside but, since they posted the cover on their fall list, I think it's okay to post it on my blog. Our illustrator is the enormously talented Johan Olander, author and illustrator of The Field Guide to Monsters and, the upcoming The Field Guide to Aliens (also being released this fall).

We Garagers are ecstatic and so pleased with the whole project. The illustrations are quite spooky - yeah, downright creepy - and we're hoping kids will love them - and our poems - as much as we do.

Many many thanks to our wonderful moderators and editors, Laura Wyncoop and Jennifer Cole Judd, for never giving up in the face of rejection after rejection.

Please wish us luck!

Another Soggy Weekend

Yesterday, we had yet another nor'easter pound the island with heavy rain and 60 mph gusts. We had scattered power outages, too. It's getting depressing. Last weekend was nice - real nice - so this weekend, dammit, we pay. Along about Monday, the sun should pop out and nice weather return. Of course. It will be time for me to go back to work then. It totally stinks.

During the storm, the tide was low and the canal almost emptied out. With the winds churning in the opposite direction, the water was being pushed out of the bay. Normally during a storm, we have exceptionally high tides. Weird.

Anyhow, this morning it's uncannily quiet. The canvas is resting lopsided over the boat and the street is littered with roof shingles and branches. Don't think the roof tiles are ours. We had a new roof put on a few years back. March came in like a lion on speed. Let's hope the rest of the month is a little calmer.

The daffodils are pushing up and even the peonies are beginning to nudge their way through the soil. Last fall I planted a couple of dozen tulip bulbs so I'm excited to see how they'll look. The windowsills are filled with tubs of tomato seeds. Dennis even went out and bought raspberry bush plants. Don't know where we can plant those but in a few years we'll have fresh raspberries. Yum! Come on, spring.

The Olympics and Writing

So, I'm watching the 2010 Winter Olympics from the snugly warmth of my own couch. Julia Mancuso is hurtling down the slalom course in the fog. I ski, too, but nothing like her. Not even close. Yet I sort of know how she feels. I've skied down in the fog, barely able to see the lay of the terrain in front of me and expecting, any minute, to go careening down, head over heels, scattering my equipment in all directions. Maybe even breaking a limb or suffering a concussion. I had a concussion once from skiing (negotiating the moguls).

Most of them time, however, I don't, because I'm far too cautious. And slightly scared. When I write, however, I sort of feel like Julia or Lindsay or any one of those skiers. I'm hurtling downhill in the fog, down, down, down with the wind in my face, wondering what bumps or ruts I'm going to hit and if I will hold in there till the end. Will I fling up my arms and call it quits or keep going till I make it down to the bottom, down to the end of the trail?

Writing is a lot like flying down a ski slope, unable to see beyond the next curve in the trail. But man, what a trip!

The Power of Picture Books

Today I read Sarah Stewart's and David Small's Caldecott Honor book, The Gardener, to a group of second graders. It's a lovely, lovely book set during the Great Depression when a loaf of bread only cost a nickel and Franklin Roosevelt was the president. The story is written in the form of letters from Lydia Grace who is sent to live with her Uncle Jim until her parents' economic situation improves.

Her uncle owns a bakery in New York and never smiles. But Lydia Grace, who loves gardening, fills his window boxes with flowers and his world with beauty and in the process attracts more and more customers to his languishing bakery. She even prepares a surprise for her uncle on the rooftop of their bakery by turning it into a charming garden. Uncle Jim still doesn't crack a smile, but he makes Lydia Grace a cake decorated with flowers - "the equal of one thousand smiles" she says. At the end, Lydia Grace gets a letter stating that her papa has a new job and she's going home. Before she boards the train, her Uncle Jim gives her a big, heartfelt hug.

At that point, I started crying and my students looked at me, wondering what was wrong. "It's nothing," I said. It's just that David Small's picture of Uncle Jim hugging her was filled with so much love and feeling and it reminded me of the last time I said goodbye to my dad. He'd hugged me the same way. His diabetes had gotten worse and my mom said that he sensed his end was near. Two months later he died in his sleep.

Picture books can speak to the heart in so many ways.

Looking Forward

The new year stretches before me like a smooth, untraveled road. Okay, that sounds a little cliche, but that's how I envision it- as a long road bordered by various attractions. Here are just a few things I'm looking forward to:

1. The publication of An Eyeball in My Garden, a collection of spooky poems written by the members of The Poets Garage, published by Marshall Cavendish. The official publication date is July 15th and we're so very excited. Johan Olander is the marvelous illustrator and Laura Wyncoop and Jennifer Judd our editors.

2. Retiring from teaching. It's early, but I can do it. While I love the kids and the books and believe strongly in the power of books and teachers to shape young lives, apparently our district doesn't feel quite the same way. Librarians seem to be expendable. I don't like working in 3 different schools for people who don't seem to feel that a library is important. So, this is the year - I think. I haven't made an official announcement yet, but I'm 99% certain.

3. Attending art school. If Robert has room in his atelier, I'll be studying art this fall. I may have to wait a bit, though, until he has an opening. That's okay. At least I'll be able to take an art class during the day instead of in the evening when I'm tired.

4. Writing, writing, writing. I want to write a collection of poems, some picture books and more novels. I have in mind a story about growing up in Motown and a few other ideas I'm excited about.

5. Running. If my poor feet can handle it, I'd like to run a half marathon. We'll see.

6. Travelling. Husband and I want to see something of the world - Greece, Italy, England and Spain. The world beckons.

That's my short list. What are you looking forward to in 2010?

2010

Happy New Year, everybody! The new decade is upon us, and how happy I am! The past decade was a toughie and in so many ways I'm glad it's behind me. Still, I cherish all my memories of my kids growing up. There were times when I grumbled about having to attend 3 or 4 winter concerts in one season, about weekend long wrestling tournaments spent sitting on hard bleachers, about too much time spent chauffeuring my kids to cello lessons and violin lessons, to orchestra rehearsals and Boy Scout meetings. About too little time for me. Still, looking back at it all now, I wouldn't change a thing. Our "boys" are now young men, off on their own and living in their own apartments, forging a life for themselves. If we do our job right, wrote Neil Gaiman, they leave us (not his exact words).

Yet I did make some time for myself. When I turned 40, I bought a gym membership and began working out. I built muscles I never knew possible. And it felt good. I also began taking drawing classes, something I have never regretted. I discovered I still loved to draw and found it relaxing, yet challenging. I still take drawing classes. Somebody who's proficient at his/her craft is forever a student of it. Or so I believe.

And if I hadn't spent all those hours sitting on the bleachers during my son's wrestling tournaments, I may not have found my way back into writing. Out of boredom, I began to compose poems during those tournaments. It helped pass the time. And after years of reading tons of children's books to my kids as well as my students, I decided to try writing my own. All those years of reading had developed my feel for plot, characterization, and setting. In short, for story.

Life is too brief to spend it regretting the past. All we can do is to make the best of what's happened and look forward to the future.